Lilies
by Xanoka
Summary: White lilies stand for purity and for remembrance. Red spotted tiger lilies are for confidence and for luck. She would have liked that. Adrien insisted, but sometimes he wishes he hadn't. (A Marinette dies in childbirth fic, so be warned for angst.)
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Inspired by tumblr's toriitorii's au where Marinette dies in childbirth, and my-fair-ladybug's excellent fanfic, both of which can be found here: post/140137090526/my-fair-ladybug-toriitorii-au-where. They are both heartrending. Take a look._

 _I was also listening to Bear's Den's 'Above the Clouds of Pompeii' on loop while writing this, so yeah._

 _I kind of feel I could do more with this, so stay tuned. And if you have any thoughts, please do let me know!_

* * *

His jacket is too tight.

So is his shirt; the collar is strangling him. For probably the tenth time he moves to adjust it, but stops at the gentle pressure of Alya's hand.

"It's fine, Adrien."

Emma is nestled in her baby seat next to him. He wants to take her out and hold her, but Sabine's car safety instructions forestall him.

She catches his eye, seated across from him and manages a small smile, obviously knowing what he was thinking. She is very pale, her eyes red rimmed with dark bruises under her eyes. Her hand is trembling, clasping Tom's on her knee.

His eyes skitter around the interior of the limo, alighting and lifting off Alya just as quickly. There are lilies in her hands and on the seat beside her, red tiger lilies for confidence and luck. The florist had been surprised, insisting white lilies are more traditional. But Adrien had been adamant.

Only the red and black spotted lilies would do.

Seeing them now, he wishes he'd relented.

He returns to Emma. She is dozing and resplendent in a tiny black dress embroidered with white flowers over a white baby grow, complete with a little cap and booties.

It had been hell to get her into it this morning, and would probably be covered in sick by the end of the day.

He tries to remember where the set came from but comes up blank. Sabine had handed it to him this morning and he'd accepted it mechanically, but now he's looking at it, he can see it's definitely not one of Marinette's designs. Too impractical. Perhaps it was a gift from Father?

The baby stirs and opens her eyes. They're still a murky shade somewhere between grey and blue, waiting to settle. Hopefully they'll darken into a deep blue, like her mother's.

The car slows and grinds to a stop and Adrien's heart plummets to his shoes.

 _Just breathe_.

He releases a shaky breath.

"Adrien."

Alya is standing outside the open door and watching him with deep sympathy. Sabine and Tom have gone ahead.

He tries to smile and fails. "I'm coming."

"Do you want me to wait with you?"

"N-no. I'm fine. I'll be right there. Just – just give me a minute, OK?"

She nods understandingly and turns away. Adrien can see Nino approaching. His mouth is pulled down at the corners and his eyes look a little glassy, even at this distance. Alya moves to meet him and they hug before meandering towards the church.

 _Keep breathing._

He feels tiny little paws on his cheek and glances down at Plagg. His eyes are enormous, dwarfing his face, ears drooping, tail hanging limply – he looks just how Adrien feels.

"You OK, kid?"

"No."

Plagg nods. "We've got to go."

"I know."

He doesn't want to, though. Because once this is done, the rest of his life stretches in front of him.

But he gets out of the car anyway and unstraps Emma. He really should be talking to her, he knows, for her language development, but his face feels stiff and his voice is lodged somewhere in his throat.

She flexes a hand at him, and he takes it as an encouraging gesture – _just like her mother_. Plagg seems to think so. He's cooing at her, sounding very un-Plagg-like.

While they're busy, Adrien takes the opportunity to stretch and tries to fill his reluctant lungs. The cool October air feel too sharp and he imagines he can hear his bones creaking. The headache corkscrews, continuing its dull spiral from the hot burning behind his eyes into the centre of his brain.

He wishes he'd slept in the car. He hasn't slept properly for days.

Emma fusses and his eyes snap back to her.

He forces his lips to curve and reaches for her. "Come on, little lady."

She's tiny, really, but he likes the warmth and weight of her in his arms. He settles her on his chest and a loose dark curl – she was born with a _lot_ of hair – escapes her cap to brush his cheek.

Perhaps they can just stay here? Crouching beside the car with the open door shielding the three of them from the rest of the world?

The slight burn in his calves tells him what they think of that idea, so he straightens and reluctantly leaves the shelter of the limousine.

There aren't many people – he had insisted on a small service – but he recognises a few faces from college, lycée and university. Old friends, relatives and work colleagues milling around outside the open doors, waiting to be sucked in.

They all watch him. Some directly – is that Tom's aunt staring? – others more discretely, out of the corners of their eyes while talking behind their hands.

He doesn't need to hear them to know what they're whispering.

 _Poor boy. So young. With a baby too. Such a tragedy. So young. Whole life ahead of her. What a waste. And they were married! How awful._

He holds Emma tighter and feels Plagg nudge him gently from inside his breast pocket.

His collar is too tight. It's strangling him.

 _Deep breath. They're watching._

Years of training kick in, straightening his spine and lifting his chin. After the first step he falls into an easy stride. He is calm. His hair is perfect.

 _Show time, Agreste._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello! Thank you to Night Hawks, Wenck45, Amy Yocom, Faintiana, RangerSargey, TheliteralheartandsoulisI, Witch Priestess, Taco Fox, and the anonymous guest for all your support of this, my angstiest fic! Thank you! It's probably getting OTT, but what the hell, I've had enough of tinkering, so I'm going ahead and posting it. Just one more chapter left (I'm still editing), then hopefully a less angsty sequel. (Because I'm all about single parent Adrien.) Please do let me know what you think! Now have some more angst...**

* * *

At first it's easy.

As he slips into an easy stride, he can pretend for a second that this is just another catwalk; that all the people waiting for him are clients or co-workers.

The illusion lasts all of thirty seconds before the nearest sympathiser descends on him.

He thinks she might be a relative of Father's. Her eyes are kind and crinkled with sympathy under loose strands of silver hair. A thin, bony hand is gripping his, a tissue rustling against his skin as she says something about losing her husband. Or was it her brother? The words are merging and make no sense.

Her grip is too tight, and her skin is rough, rasping against his as she moves. Her shoulders are hunched oddly, like a vulture's. For a wild moment Adrien wonders if she might be an akuma.

Her lips stop moving and he nods jerkily. With a last unpleasant squeeze she finally releases his hand and he snatches it back, pretending to adjust Emma's dress.

The old woman smiles, stretching her face.

She's a pretty little thing.

Thank you.

So much lovely dark hair!

She gets it from her mother.

And now he's had enough of the conversation and brushes past, not caring if it's rude.

But there's another vaguely familiar stranger waiting to replace her and then another. By the time Adrien reaches the church porch his thin confidence is in shreds.

"Adrien." It's Nino, calling him by name for the first time in years and pulling him into a one armed hug. They're both careful not to jostle Emma.

After a second, Adrien takes a step back to look at his friend. Nino is wearing a suit for the first time since the wedding; a new pair of glasses but no headphones or cap. His head looks naked without them.

He can imagine what Nino is seeing.

He feels like a wreck. He hasn't slept, he hasn't eaten anything but tea and toast since Emma was born – his stomach expels everything else.

He's pale and no amount of make-up can quite hide the dark smudges under his eyes or the slightly hollowed cheeks. He is aware of the painful angles of his shoulder blades and wrist bones, not quite fitting in his jacket.

"You look good, dude."

On the other hand, he is also wearing one of his Father's finest designs, a miracle in pure cotton and symmetrical lines.

"Thanks, man." He manages a smile.

Nino returns it tentatively, relieved at his own tact.

 _Congratulations, Nino. You haven't set off the ticking time bomb._

The smile slips away, but Nino doesn't notice, turning his attention to Emma.

"So, how's the little lady? She's getting big!"

That's not actually true.

Emma had been too small when she was born and had spent several long, agonising days under observation before being released by the hospital. Now, at almost a week old, she's barely the size of an average newborn.

But it seems to be just one of those things people say to new parents, so Adrien nods anyway as he turns her around for Nino to see.

Alya appears beside them. Her eyes are a little red, but she rallies a smile.

"Isn't she cute? Look at her little button nose! You want to hold her?"

Adrien's arm is tightening possessively, even as Nino shakes his head vigorously, looking horror struck.

"Dude, no! I mean, she _is_ cute," he adds hastily. "But I totally can't hold babies. She's seriously tiny. I'd drop her, for sure."

Alya makes an exasperated noise and turns back to Adrien.

"Do you need to take a break? Want me to hold Emma for you?"

"I'm fine," he replies a little too quickly, earning himself a funny look.

 _Good job, Agreste_.

"Have you seen Sabine and Tom?" he asks, by way of distraction.

He knows instantly it's the wrong question.

"Oh," Alya seems to diminish. "They're inside by the – by the –"

She shudders and Nino pulls her into a hug, but Adrien has stopped paying attention.

Closed casket or open? The question consumes him.

He can't remember. The meeting with the funeral director swims into his mind, but it's like trying to catch his reflection with his hands. The details break apart.

Alya isn't holding the lilies anymore, which might be all the answer he needs.

 _She's in there_.

Except she isn't. She never will be again.

 _Oh God._

Plagg's little claws are digging into his chest, through the silk lining of his jacket and the cotton of his shirt, and he's breathing again.

"Dude, do you need to sit down? You're seriously pale." Nino's hand is on his shoulder, bracing him.

"I feel sick."

Later, Adrien will reflect on how much he loves and appreciates his two best human friends.

Without another word, they swing into action, hustling him past people and furniture he can't focus on and into the toilets. Alya plucks Emma from his arms – this time without complaint. And Nino holds him up, practically folded over his arm, until there's nothing coming up but stomach acid.

When it's over, Nino straightens him up, rubbing his back soothingly, and guides him to the sinks so he can wash his face. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Alya rocking Emma in a baby carrier – _where had that come from?_ – with her foot while she rummages in a small black bag. Lined up on the edge of the sink is an army of little bottles.

Adrien recognises eye drops, concealer, even a compact of blusher and realises it's one of Nathalie's old 'Quick Fix kits'. She used to make him carry one everywhere, even at school.

Is she here? Had she been invited? He can't remember.

It's too much effort, so he lets his eyes wander downwards. Somehow he's ended up in a classic model pose, leaning against the wall, with one leg bent at the knee, foot braced against the wall.

 _Nice recovery_.

Adrien straightens up immediately, then frowns.

His trousers are spotless. So is his jacket, his shirt, even his shoes. Somehow, Nino had saved them from splashes, or even significant creasing.

And suddenly it seems so unfair it's almost funny. Almost _wrong._

That his clothes, of all things, have survived the day.


	3. Chapter 3

Once, when he was younger, Adrien had gone with his father to the funeral of some colleague or other. It was an open casket funeral, and Adrien had slipped in to take a look when his father wasn't watching.

The man had looked like something made of wax; shrunken, skin yellow and shrivelled by age and his disease.

Marinette looks nothing like that.

Her skin looks soft and pale, despite the blusher someone had added. Her hair is arranged neatly fanned out around her face, making her look like a pre-Raphaelite princess. Like Snow White waiting to be woken up.

He drags his eyes away down to her hands. She's holding a single red lily, making him wonder what had happed to the rest of the bunch. He notices her nails are red and dotted to match. A coincidence, he remembers with a twist of his stomach. He'd painted them for her that last evening before the contractions started had everything had spiralled straight down to hell.

He's grateful that the church is empty. The other mourners are waiting outside, and even Tom and Sabine have abandoned their vigil to give them a moment alone.

Should he say something? His throat is too dry to speak and his hands are clammy and lifeless at his sides. He can't make them move, which is a problem as he wants to touch her; feel the warmth that must surely be there.

Since he'd first seen her, she'd always been so warm and alive and _animated_.

Her hair stirs, and for a second, he can't breathe. Then a little red head pops out, big blue eyes gazing up at him sorrowfully.

"Tikki." His own voice is so rough he barely recognises it. His throat closes and his eyes burn, but there's no moisture.

Glancing around, the coast seems to be clear, but he leans over anyway, lifting the front of his jacket for her. Plagg leans out of the inner pocket but turns away almost immediately, burrowing down back into its depths.

 _Lucky_.

As he watches, Tikki curls up against Marinette's neck briefly. Her lips seem to be moving, but he can't hear whatever she's saying. He _can_ feel Plagg stirring fretfully against his chest. Then she zips into the air and disappears into his pocket.

After that he takes his seat mechanically and stares straight ahead.

People start to filter in, paying their last respects before passing him to find their own seats. A few pause to murmur condolences, but he ignores them until they shuffle away.

Eventually, Sabine and Tom come to join him, sagging with grief, and Adrien moves along to make room.

Before any of them can attempt speech, Alya appears, to Adrien's intense relief. She's carrying Emma, fast asleep, in the baby carrier.

 _Oh, God. Emma._

He had completely forgotten about her.

He pinches himself, and tries not to think of an empty mansion and his father's eyes looking right through him.

Then the priest arrives, starting the service.

Adrien won't be able to remember any of it.

That's not completely true.

He will never forget the moment the lid of the coffin is lowered.

It's well made, so the ominous creaking he might have expected is absent, replaced by a soft _thunk_ as wood meets wood.

And he'll always remember gripping his seat until his knuckles turn white, forcing himself to breathe slowly and ignore the mad impulse to vault over the front of the pew and tear the lid open again.

 _Shut away_.

The priest is looking at him, and now it's his turn.

He stands shakily. Just the movement of standing up makes his head spin as the lack of food and sleep makes itself keenly felt.

 _I can't do this._

Tom's hand is on his shoulder, squeezing kindly. Adrien nods jerkily at the implicit question and follows his Father-in-law to the front. Nino and Alya are already there, along with Marinette's Uncle Wang and a few friends from university and college. Ivan meets his eye, and half smiles, though it's more like a grimace.

Then his shoulder is braced against a corner of the coffin next to Tom and he's only got a second to summon up some of Chat's strength – _because he's a super hero, dammit_ – when the priest takes his first step towards the doors of the church, and they're all following.

 _Don't slip. Don't slip. Don't slip._

Tom is shaking, tears, rolling down his cheeks and there's a gasping, but he doesn't know who it's coming from.

 _Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together._

Through the doors, down the path to the waiting hearse.

And it's finally over, the funeral directors guiding the coffin inside, releasing them to join the other mourners as they follow the car to the gravesite. Sabine takes his hand as soon as he's within arm's reach. She's holding a handkerchief to her face in her other hand and leans into Tom as he presses back into her, arms going around her waist in a full body hug.

Adrien realises then that his eyes are still dry, the knowledge twisting horribly in his stomach.

 _Oh God, I'm turning into Father._

Before he can dwell on that, he feels something brushing his hand. Glancing down, he sees red, spotted lilies. Follow the arm holding them up, and it's Alya, pushing the rest of the bouquet at him. She's saying something, but he can't hear her.

Red lilies.

 _Ladybug_.

The world narrows to a pin prick, and he sways, then it rushes back again with a disorientating roar in his ears.

He's missed something, because now they're at the gravesite – Nino must have half dragged him there – and the coffin is being lowered. He can't focus, and his eyes wander to the piles of earth beside the grave.

It reminds him of an akuma they'd faced when they were kids, the Underminer, who tunnelled under the streets of Paris, burying his victims. He remembers trying to scramble out of a pit, deprived of his baton, until the familiar zing of Ladybug's yoyo heralded her arrival and his means of escape.

 _She's in there._

His muscles burn to leap to her side, to save her, as he has done thousands of times before.

 _You didn't save her._

Alya nudges him, jolting him and prompting him to stare at her blankly. She tilts her head towards the grave and holds up her own bunch of white lilies.

"The _flowers_."

 _Oh. Oh, right._

He takes a shaky step, but he's finally gone too far.

His stomach drops, lilies slipping from numb fingers as the ground rushes up to meet him. He lands on his knees and is only saved from face planting by Nino's quick hand on his shoulder.

 _God bless Nino._

Although, he realises with some vicious satisfaction, his trousers are almost definitely ruined now. Despite the cold, the ground is soft with recent rain and there will certainly be stains. He allows his weight to relax, sitting on his folded legs.

Definitely ruined.

 _Father would have a fit._

He can feel himself shaking, grinding his knees further into what's rapidly turning into mud. Anxious voices buzz overhead, but he ignores them.

The grass is cool and wet, he can feel the water seeping through his clothes.

There's water on his face, but it isn't raining.

His chest might be cracking open as it heaves. It hurts.

He's so, so glad.

* * *

 **A/N: So, I made a mistake. I've based this story so far on the funerals I've attended, and research has revealed that in France it may be more typical for people to pay their last respects at the home of the deceased or at the funeral parlour, rather than displaying the coffin in the church itself. As I already mentioned a church in part one, I'm sticking with it, but apologies to any French readers for the Research Fail. I will do better in future.**

 **Thank you again to everyone who's followed, favorited or left a review for** ** _Lilies_** **! You are all awesome!**

 **That's it for this story. It's the first time I've attempted a Death Fic, so hopefully it wasn't too awful. On the bright side, I finally finished a multi-chapter fic! Horray! I am planning a sequel, featuring single-parent Adrien, toddler Emma and Chat Noir antics, along with a new Ladybug to mentor and adventures to be had. Hopefully, it will be a lot more upbeat than this. If any of that interests you, please watch this space. And, as always, please let me know what you think! Thanks! :)**


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